


Supernatural: The Expendables

by SingingFlames



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Exploring, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Humor, Just an excuse to get them into trouble
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-20
Updated: 2016-06-20
Packaged: 2018-07-16 03:15:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7249807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SingingFlames/pseuds/SingingFlames
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crowley and Castiel wander into more than they bargained for while exploring some crypts. No Pairings. No OCs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Supernatural: The Expendables

**Author's Note:**

> Time Frame: Unspecific  
> Pairings: None  
> Rating: PG  
> Warnings: Mild Language  
> A/N: Just an excuse to get my two favorite characters in trouble.

“Lovely vacation spot you've found here,” Crowley commented to his companion, looking around the underground crypts.

“This is not my vacation spot,” Castiel replied.

“Sarcasm, pet. Sarcasm.” 

Sure, Crowley had seen worse places. Hell, for one, could make this appear quite cheery. But for a human building, it ranked pretty low on the appealing scale. As soon as Crowley had spied the church and its surroundings from the outside, his expectations had plummeted. 

The decrepit cathedral loomed over its surroundings. Windows, broken and covered in cobwebs, stared out over the trees; faded paint clung to the exterior, cracked and peeling. Rising above the steeple, a single pole stood sentinel, all that remained of a once-proud cross. Inside, dirt, leaves and mouse droppings lay heavy across the floor, coloring the air with a heavy musty scent. In the chapel, years of dust and spider webs covered the worn pews. Wind whistled through seams in the doors and walls.

In the valley below, a smattering of meager houses squatted along the lone dirt road in this region. Their residents went about their lives, refusing to acknowledge the abandoned cathedral above. Decades of rumors and dark fables surrounded the building. Whispers flew behind closed doors, wild tales that only grew more preposterous as time passed. But every one agreed: only the foolhardy would dare venture into the cathedral.

None of this bothered the two currently wandering through the cathedral crypts.

Crowley lingered behind Castiel, letting the angel proceed him into the underground chambers. Odd place, this. He was no architect – booze and debauchery had consumed his mortal life and his demon existence had more important concerns than buildings – but the stonework down here looked different from that of the cathedral above. Older, certainly. Trust humans to build their paltry constructions atop others, trying to make use of things they shouldn't. Fools. The old places – the truly old ones – had their own power, their own defenses. And they didn't like to be disturbed.

And here he was, following an angel into such a place.

Let the bird go first, then. This venture wasn't Crowley's idea, after all. Castiel had dangled quite the tempting apple in front of him, though.

“I know why I'm here, mate,” Crowley said, “but why did you want me here? Why not bring the boys along to play?”

Castiel cast a quick glance behind him. “There are signs of major curses, hints of a superior power at work here. Dean and Sam are exceptional, but until I know what we are facing, I didn't want to expose them to an unknown hazard.”

Halfway through the angel's statement, Crowley stopped walking. He held up a hand. “Hold up there, pigeon. I'm not expendable.”

“I never said you were.”

“You're not willing to risk the boys, but you're happy to throw my ass in the fire?”

“You and I are more resilient–”

“More expendable?”

Castiel tightened his jaw and glared at the demon. “You can leave, if you want.”

“And let Moose and Squirrel run off with another toy?” Crowley said. If one could trust rumors – always a problematic prospect – another demon-smiting artifact was somewhere down here. Crowley would much rather possess such an item himself, than let one of his rivals or the Winchesters nab it up. Castiel offered it up to him in exchange for his help acquiring whatever trinket the angel wanted. Assuming, of course, it was here.

Crowley, hands tucked in his pockets, rolled his eyes as the angel walked away from him. They wandered past alcoves filled with crumbling skeletons, cobwebs and dust. Rats, hiding between bones, blinked at them. Crowley sighed. Boring place, this.

Castiel pointed at the wall ahead. A seam broke apart the stones, marking a door. “That should lead to the main structure. The cult operated inside there.”

“Whatever you say, cupcake.”

“Stop that.”

“What? Agreeing with you?”

Castiel glared at him. Crowley raised his eyebrows, all innocence.

“Fine,” the demon said. “I will no longer be amiable with you, if that's what you wish.”

“You know that's not…,” Cas began, then shook his head. “Just stop being difficult. If possible.”

Castiel felt around the door. His finger caught in a crevice, triggering a hidden latch. The door clicked and the angel forced it open with a shove. A wide corridor headed away from them.

“Interesting décor.” Crowley scratched his beard.

'Interesting' was one word for it. 'Baffling' would have worked. 'Crowded' or 'insane', too. Most cultures put their decorations on the walls, such as paintings, tapestries or even carvings. Whoever dug out this hole made their own mark on the decorating community, choosing instead to carve up the floor and, oh yeah, the ceiling too.

Deep, interlocking circle grooves traversed the floor, each one as wide as the corridor itself. The fifteen-foot tall ceiling was covered in geometric shapes: lines, circles, squiggles, all interposed over each other in a giant, dizzying Escher-like mural that spanned the entire ceiling. Crowley blinked and shook his head. Humans.

The two wandered into hallway.

“Any idea where your bauble is?” Crowley asked.

“No.”

“You're helpful.”

“You could help.” Castiel glanced back. At Crowley's raised eyebrows, he clarified, “Do you sense anything?”

Sighing, Crowley looked about. Then halted completely. “No.”

“Neither do I–”

“We need to go.” The demon began backing up.

“Why?”

Crowley shot him an annoyed glance. “I'm strolling along next to an angel. Fallen or not, I should still be able to sense– Bugger all!” He jerked in place. The demon looked around, first at the floor then, above him.

“What is wrong?”

“What do you think. moron? Devil’s trap!” Crowley eyed the intricate designs above. “There! It's hidden in all that junk.” Looking for it, he could see the trap, its lines blended in but unbroken amidst the rest of the shapes and designs. “Those clever prats.”

Castiel joined him, angel blade drawn. “It's too tall for me to reach. But I may be able to scar the trap enough to free you, if I can get up there.”

“That’s quite the ‘if’. Have any ladders crammed up your bum?”

Castiel tilted his head. “There is nothing crammed up my 'bum'.”

“I think there may be a stick up there,” Crowley muttered. When the angel moved to reply, he said, “Here's a thought: why don't you be a pal and go for a look-see and try to find something to help out?”

Castiel glanced back the way they had come from, and then farther down the way they'd been heading. After a moment, he chose the latter. 

“Take your time. I’ll just enjoy the charming scenery,” Crowley called after him. He glanced about. Bleak, dusty walls. Strange, intricate carvings hiding at least one devil’s trap. Stupid engraved circles on the floor. Yes, oh so charming. 

Castiel stepped on a loose stone, which sunk deeper into the floor. A shower of sparks rained down on the angel, who flinched but remained unharmed. The tiny embers fell and bounced, several falling into the engraved circle that Castiel stood within. Flames ignited from the circle, leaping up and surrounding him. The angel spun around, gaze sweeping over the flames.

“Is that what I think it is?” Crowley asked, raising a finger and pointing at the burning circle.

“Holy oil,” Castiel growled out the words, his eyes narrow.

“You bloody idiot.”

Castiel glared at him. “I’ll remind you that I’m not the only one trapped, nor was I the first to become so.”

“Full disclosure, pigeon,” Crowley said, “if I ever have the displeasure of recounting this incident, you’ll have been the first one trapped. In fact, as far as I will remember it, I’ll not have been trapped at all.”

“But that’s a lie.”

“Who, me? Lie?” The demon held a hand against his non-beating heart. “Never!”

“You have lied and mislead us and others–“

“Sarcasm, love. Remember?” Crowley pulled out his phone and sighed. “No signal. Joy.”

Castiel withdrew his own phone and punched some numbers. He placed it to his ear. A moment later, he frowned and glanced at the screen. “It is not working.”

“It’s called a signal, and you don’t have one either.” Crowley rolled his eyes. “How long will that light show burn?”

Castiel’s lips tightened. He edged closer to the flames, peering into them. “I can’t be sure, but it appears fairly deep. Judging from the height of the flames, and normal rate of oil consumption, I would estimate perhaps two, maybe three centuries.”

“Ah. This is going to get old, fast.” Crowley glanced side to side. “I spy with my little eye, something that begins with ‘D’.”

“Your eyes are normal sized.”

“Really old, really fast.” The demon grunted. “It was ‘dumbass’, by the way.”

“I don’t understand.” Castiel regarded him through narrow eyes.

“Of course not.”

The angel sighed. “We should plan some means of escape.”

“Did you happen to tell the boyos where you were running off to?”

“No.” Castiel paced within the small confines of the circle. “I did not believe I would be gone long, nor need additional assistance.”

“Of course not. You have expendable me here.” Crowley’s mouth quirked to the side. “So, option one: we hang out here, twiddling our thumbs for a few centuries until your trap breaks, and hopefully you can, and will, free me then. Two: the cultists come back, find us, and torture and probably kill us. Or three: one of our enemies followed us here and the same scenario.”

“None of those sound desirable.”

“You think?”

“But of the choices presented, the first option seems preferable.” 

“Two, three centuries trapped here, with you?” Crowley withdrew his ever-present silver flask and took a swig. “Pass. Sign me up for torture and death. Far more enjoyable.”

Castiel opened his mouth, paused, and then continued, “If that is true, and our captors truly wished to torment you, then wouldn’t it be logical for them to leave us here indefinitely?”

“Wash your mouth.”

“Impossible, given our circumstances.”

Crowley grimaced. “Fine. Then what say you shut it? Imbecile.”

Putting the flask away, the demon shoved his hands into his pockets and let his gaze wander. The hall was chock full of nothing helpful – cobwebs, dust, holy oil (useful under normal circumstances, but not so much when already burning), and other bits of rubble. Oh, and a poncey fallen angel that, for his part, was doing absolutely jack to be useful. 

Crowley spent a small eternity taking stock of his surroundings (surely something here could be useful), ignoring Castiel and draining his flask. The latter happened far too fast. He paced. He stood still. He paced some more. He bounced up and down on the balls of his feet. He adjusted his jacket. He pulled out his flask. Still empty. He rolled his eyes. More pacing.

“Bloody hell, this is intolerable,” he burst out. “How long has it been?”

Castiel, who hadn’t moved more than a few steps, pulled out his phone. “Five hours, four minutes.”

“Bugger it all.” The demon glared at his companion. “You could do something, you know, besides practice your garden statue repertoire.”

“‘Doing something’ does not appear to be helping you,” Castiel retorted, “unless you think endless fidgeting will either put out the flames or cause the devil’s trap to instantaneously erode. However did you manage when the Winchesters held you for those months?”

“One, thank you for reminding me of such a lovely episode in my life. Two, I was bound, neck, hands and feet to a chair.” Crowley pointed to each body part as he named them. “Freedom of movement wasn’t an option.” 

“You were not in their dungeon the entire time.”

“Oh no, of course not. Being toted around in their trunk of that damned Impala, crunched up like a circus pretzel, was quite enjoyable.”

Castiel opened his mouth, paused, then said, “Sarcasm?”

“It can learn.”

“I see. Still, fidgeting is not… What is that?”

Angel and demon paused, looking behind them, back into the crypt proper. A familiar voice called out.

“Cas? Cas! You in here?”

“Dean!” Castiel called back. “Down here!”

A pair of glad shouts answered him. Torch beams illuminated the distance, casting shadows over the ageless webs and bones behind them.

“Oh joy, the wonder twins,” Crowley muttered.

“How did they find me?”

“Is your GPS turned on?” the demon replied.

“My what?”

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes’. They tracked your phone.”

Castiel glanced at his phone, his expression blank. “It’s not working.”

“They located the last place it did work, probably the village. Even socially inept dullards like those two can figure out that the big, scary church ruins are a good place to start looking for their missing bird.”

A voice broke in, “At least these ‘socially inept dullards’ didn’t get themselves, what, are you trapped?” Dean entered the corridor. He looked over his shoulder. “Doesn’t he look trapped, Sammy?”

“Dean.” Crowley bit back a sigh. “Pleasure, as always.”

Sam, coming in behind his brother, growled, “Crowley, what the hell are you doing here? Cas, you okay?”

“Ah, Samantha, how are you this fine, what is it, evening? Morning?” The demon smirked. 

“Crowley,” Castiel warned, in a low growl. He turned his attention back to the brothers. “I am fine, considering. And he is here because I invited him.”

“Sorry, I think my hearing’s shot.” Dean swiped a finger through his ear. “I swear you just said you invited him on this little jaunt of yours? Want to run that by me again?”

Crowley tuned out the family spat. The Winchesters (and, when they pulled him into the mix, Castiel) made squabbling into an art form. Those two (three) took turns betraying each other's’ trust like it was an afternoon lark. Usually, quite entertaining. Usually, however, he wasn’t helpless inside some devil’s trap.

The two morons wandered off upstairs, something about getting one of the pews to make a makeshift bridge for Castiel. Sure, the flames would fry it in short order, but the angel only needed a moment.

No mention was made of Crowley or his predicament.

Staying quiet wasn’t Crowley’s strong suit, but his overwhelming sense of self preservation overrode his natural snark. This wasn’t the Winchesters’ dungeon, where he had nothing left to lose. His shot at the artifact was lost – the plaid-wearing imbeciles were unlikely to honor Castiel’s deal with him – but he, himself, could still escape. Unscathed, preferably. That required he do something utterly repulsive and against his nature:

Play nice.

So he bit his tongue when Sam jammed the pew in the doorway and Dean couldn’t arrest his forward momentum fast enough. The planks caught the elder Winchester in his gut. So many beautifully wicked comments came to mind (mainly concerning Moose and his uncontrolled ‘wood’), but they died an unspoken death. Pity.

Sam cast a quick, wary glance at Crowley, clearly expecting some comment. He rose his brows in silent reply, hands in his pockets.

As the boy wonders continued their blundering (well, granted, they were making decent progress moving that awkward thing, but Crowley would never admit that), he turned his gaze upwards to the devil’s trap. Bloody thing. Damned inconvenient, that’s for sure. 

“Now what?” Dean’s voice interrupted his contemplation. 

The Winchesters stood to the fire’s side with their pet angel, the pew smoldering and pulled clear of the flame. 

“Dean…“ Sam raised his eyebrows, casting a significant glance at the demon. 

Crowley’s lips pulled to the side in a grimace. It wasn’t hard to figure where Sam’s mind was. Not long ago, the younger Winchester had tried to kill him. He looked between Dean and Castiel, judging their reaction. 

Tired frustration marked Dean’s face. Castiel looked between the two humans, his expression unreadable.The angel settled his gaze on Dean.

“He’s only here because I asked him. He came to help me,” Castiel said.

“What, out of the goodness of his heart?” Dean shook his head. 

Crowley snorted. “Oh yes, I’m all kittens and rainbows. Prat.”

“Shut up, Crowley. You’re not helping.” The angel wasn’t wrong. But he could only hold his tongue so long. Demons just weren’t meant to play nice. Castiel continued, “There was an agreed upon reward, should we prove successful. But the fact remains that his current predicament is my fault.”

“Agreed,” Crowley muttered. He held his hands up in an insincere apology when Castiel turned a brief glare at him.

“Can you go two seconds without being an ass?” Sam said, arms crossed.

“I’ve actually been quite civil, but I don’t expect certain individuals to recognize or appreciate my efforts.”

“‘Civil’ for you seems an awful like ‘prick’ to us.” Dean pointed at himself and his brother.

“You boys lack refinement.”

Dean gestured at the floor under Crowley’s feet. ““You wanna make that your new home for the next eternity or so?” The demon scowled, but did not reply. “Try shutting up for once.”

“Rude.” As if he hadn’t been holding his tongue all this time. Insolent sods. Crowley waved a hand at them. “Pray continue deciding my fate.”

Dean sighed, gaze flicking between his brother and the angel. Sam shook his head. Castiel said nothing, just returned his scrutiny, unblinking. Dean turned his grimace to Crowley.

“Dammit.”

Dean drew his Colt .45 and aimed it at the ceiling. After adjusting his angle to best anticipate any ricochets, he fired two quick shots. Dust and grit flew. 

Like lightning cutting through night, Crowley’s awareness flooded back into him. He felt the angel’s grace so near, so opposite, to his own dark essence. He felt the Winchesters’ souls, fleet and fragile little things, fluttering in their fleshy prisons, yet so powerful in their own right, like all human souls. Misused, true potential squashed under foolish ideals and idiotic morals. And, most important, he felt his kingdom, his Hell, in the distance but right there, its power filling him. 

Most times, he tuned all that out, unless needed. But after its absence, he reveled in the return of his awareness and what its return heralded.

He was free.

“Thank you, boys.” He felt particularly chipper. No harm in a bit of gratitude. Occasionally. He tipped an imaginary hat to Castiel. “It’s been fun. Enjoy your musty, trap-laden crypt. If you ever need something, don’t call. In fact, forget you even know me. Good day.”

He vanished.


End file.
